


Nameless

by angstlover



Series: The Brain Without A Heart [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Drug Abuse, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 09:27:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7568890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angstlover/pseuds/angstlover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock couldn't do it anymore and decided to commit suicide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nameless

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a spin off from my other fic The Brain Without A Heart, where it delves into Sherlock's depression and suicidal thoughts and struggle, especially when John decided to leave baker street without notice and completely shuns Sherlock. 
> 
> This story is a "What if" variation of how Sherlock might choose to end his life at any point during The Brain Without A Heart.

_ Hi, how are you? I hope you're doing well. I've decided this is it. I realize this is all my life will ever be, trapped by my own mind, feeling agony and fear and regret and despair with no particular reason.  _

_ Some days seem alright, I can function, I can think, I can solve cases, I can get by each day if I'm careful not to let my mind slip down that path. Other days are a mystery to me. I nearly broke down in Scotland Yard for no reason. I was explaining my deduction, there was nothing about the topic that was triggering or distressing to me. So I don't understand why I was fine in one moment and in the next, the pain and regret and agony flooded my mind. I wanted to cry. I wanted to beg for help. I wanted to stab myself. I wanted to hurt myself. That made no sense but that's what my mind is now. _

_ I'm faulty. I'm broken. I was never normal to begin with though.  _

_ I'm weird. I'm a freak. And the way I am now, with this dysfunctional brain, I'm what people would call crazy, insane, psycho. _

_ I'm not human. I don't exist. I don't want to exist. I don't have an identity. I'm anonymous. I'm anyone, and therefore I am no one. I'm a passer by in the crowd, I exist to be forgotten.  _

_ That is better for me. To be nobody. To be forgotten. To not matter. I won't be hated if I am nobody. I won't be a burden if I am nobody. I won't drive people away because there will never be anyone around me if I'm nobody. _

_ I don't truly exist if I'm nobody. And that is who I wish to be. _

_ When you find my body, don't mourn my death for I never mattered. I am a faceless drug addict, I succumbed to my addiction and I died of a reckless overdose. I have no family or friends. I am alone. There is no one you need to inform about my death.  _

_ My presence will hurt and burden people. _

_ But my absence will heal.  _

_ Everything will heal and that's why I've chosen to end my life. _

_ I'm sorry that you had to read this letter. Please don't identify who I am, don't bother about my body. It can rot and be eaten by maggots. It's just a body. I have no identity. I don't exist. I never did. And I no longer have to. _

_ I hope you're having a nice day. _

 

_ Anonymous _

 

_ \---- _

 

His body was found in a drug den somewhere in Aberdeen. He'd deliberately traveled far, to a place where most people won't know him. There were no belongings with him, no I.D, no wallet, no phone, no bags, nothing. All that was left in baker street, the heart of his existence when he was once still somebody. He left the items there because that's where it belonged, that's where the modern legend of super sleuth, Sherlock Holmes, and his Boswell, John Watson, once lived. And they still live there, in stories that transcends time, they will always live there. They will always solve unsolvable cases, they will always sit across each other in the same two chairs, they will always laugh and they will always smile in that flat.

The body in the drug den of Aberdeen was not that of Sherlock Holmes. It was merely a corpse, nothing more. It never had identity, family, or friends. It wasn't a person. It was just a body.  It laid face down on the dirty floor, wearing a baggy blue jacket and grey tracksuit bottoms. The sleeve of his left arm had been rolled up, exposing his arm, littered with track marks and several of which were recent and fresh.  His cupid’s bow lips were almost completely blue, his dark curls a disheveled mess and his eyelashes were a stark contrast to his deathly pale skin. An empty syringe rests between loosely curled fingers along with a the crumpled paper of his note. This wasn't Sherlock Holmes. It's just a body.

Two weeks after Sherlock first went missing, the search team sent out by Mycroft finally found the body. Mycroft knelt down and picked up the note.

He reads it. He clenched his eyes. He folded the paper and tucked it into his suit pocket. He stood up and watched as paramedics lifted the lifeless body into an ambulance.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry I just needed to channel my thoughts. Thank you for reading though!


End file.
